We That are A'Changin': Perspectives
by Seiferre Quintesce
Summary: Life goes on for the toys in Andy's room, but when Andy receives a Buzz Lightyear for his seventh birthday and enraptures him, will the old-fashioned Sheriff still retain his place in his heart? -Toy Story Retold/Buzz/Woody-
1. Belonging Together: Prologue

**WE THAT ARE A'CHANGIN'  
**_Perspectives__  
_By: Seiferre Quintesce / 2o1o

**RATING:** T  
**PAIRING(S):** Quaint-shipping (Woody/Bo), eventual BFF-shipping  
**GENRE(S):** Romance/Action/Adventure  
**WARNING(S):** Some material not suited for children.  
**COMMENTS?:** Yes, please. R&R to your heart's desire. I'll love you for it.  
**CONTESTS: **None right now.  
**DEDICATIONS: **To all you wonderful reviewers, of course.**  
DISCLAIMER:** 'Toy Story' is © Pixar and Disney. I do not own it, or the characters, and only claim any non-canon characters as my own. This piece of fiction was created for entertainment purposes only, bearing no intent for profit or gain.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **In case you're wondering, this is a retelling of the Toy Story trilogy with Buzz/Woody shipping. PS, HockeyPuck, your cameo is here :3.

So… I don't know what's possessing me to completely retell Toy Story in word form, but… Uhh, I just kinda… Have to. I feel as though I can't write the series I want to write without doing so. Does that make sense? I expect that's why I'm doing this; I just hope you guys enjoy the ride with me. xD As always, if you'd like a personal reply to your review (i.e., an answer to a question or something), you can feel free to send me a message.

**TODAY'S FOOTNOTES INCLUDE**: Just a little note.

* * *

_**Lansing, Michigan  
1956**_

_Crackle. Hiss._

_Staticstaticstatic._

"Woody's Roundup… Right here, every day…"

_Sssszzhiss._

"Woody's Roundup - come on, it's time to play…"

"_Con-flabbed, stupid contraption - " – BANG! – "Work, blast ye!"_

"There's Jezz-zzz-zzz-zzz…"

"_Pa, stop that. It ain't gonna work if ya keep screwin' with it like that!"_

"_Fine!" an old, weathered voice wheezed, giving the hunk of plastic and metal a slap on its side for good measure. "Yew work it then. I ain't gonna waste my time with it. It's _your_ fav'rite show, not mine."_

_A sigh. Small, nimble hands flew to the antenna and adjusted the tongs so that they leaned slightly more towards the left - away from the walls of their small, run down house. The battered black-and-white television suddenly blared to life, given a second wind by the competent boy and his love for Western mysteries. "There, see? It ain't so hard."_

" - He's a smart one! Pete, the old prospector, and - "

"Woody, the man himself, a'course, it's time fer Woody's Roundup, he's th' very bes', he's the rootines', tootines' cowboy in the… Wild, wild West! _Yee-haw!"_

_Weathered-Old-Man rolled his eyes to the plaster ceiling and prepared himself for an hour of snores, bores, and beer. His son was cute – bless the boy, he was a godsend to his old bones – but this damned show got his head stuck in the clouds so often that Franklin Davis was often sure that he'd end up flying himself to Texas one day. Ever since that new show – Woody's Roundup, was it? – had been broadcast, no one had been able to tear the boy's awe-filled eyes away from that blasted picture box. It was as if he actually thought that the show was more important than the farm, or his schoolwork. Franklin snorted and downed his favorite bronze beverage in one gulp. He needed it._

_Charles – that was his name, although he went more often by 'Cheap-Shot Charlie' now - even went so far as to copy the accent he heard the puppets talk in, modeling it after a mixture of his father's speech patterns, his mother's twang, and the Sheriff's infuriatingly slow speed. It made him look like a doofus in class, his teacher would frankly tell the parents two weeks later, but it didn't seem to bother him any. Indeed, Charlie seemed about as enthralled with the way he was learning to talk as he was with the cardboard box cows that littered his room, or the large paper cacti that he'd glued to the Missus' expensive white wallpaper._

_It was a shame such talent was going to waste, in his opinion._

_**1957**_

"_Pa, how come they never showed what happened 'ta Sheriff Woody?"_

"'_Cause." He paused. How was he supposed to explain the workings of a television network to a – however perceptive – sensitive and somewhat naïve child? Franklin tapped his chin with the rim of his beer bottle and took a thoughtful sip. Sputnik had all but erased any interest that Americans had in the Wild, Wild, West. Shows like 'Woody's Roundup' were petering out, surviving on the precocious minds of five year olds and declining merchandise sales. He hadn't seen a good Western in a long while, actually. The theaters were filled with movies about weird-looking green men with beady black eyes and men in silver suits. "'Cause Woody took a long trip, son. He ain't comin' back fer a good, long time." _

"_Why?" Charlie pouted, much to the amusement of his mother Veronica. She smoothed his hair and left to butter the Christmas turkey. "I'm tired'a all these space shows. They're borin'. Woody was better, an' now he's gone! He needs'ta finish jumpin' over the Grand Canyon an' save Jessie an' Stinky Pete – he cain't jus' leave!"_

_Franklin sighed. Tiresome boy. "Try makin' up yer own adventures, son. Me an' yer uncle Howard used to do that all the time. S'a lot more fun than sittin' in front of a box all day."_

_A reproachful look. "I ain't got a Woody doll."_

"_Use Dipstick." Dipstick was getting on, and its fur was slowly being loved off – it was an old hand-me-down that all the Davis men passed down from child to child; a simple way of saying "Screw off, I don't want you in my bed whenever there's a storm out at night."_

"_Naw, Dipstick's too old! He'll be Stinky Pete."_

"_Well, ya can't have Woody's Roundup without Woody."_

_Charlie sighed. His parents would never understand – he couldn't use just _anyone_ for Sheriff Woody. He was too important, much too ingrained in the story to be portrayed by anyone else. Besides, he was one of the coolest toys out there – a pullstring with nine different sayings. Nine! It would be just like having his own, personal hero lying around the house. But he'd never get one – they'd stopped selling those in toy stores back in early November. The best that he'd seen in the toy stores lately were some boxed Pete the Prospector dolls, teetering out of the clearance bin as if they were attempting to escape, or begging the children to buy them. The boy reached to rub his eyes and held back a small sniff. He'd really wanted a Woody doll._

_His vision, suddenly, was full of dull brown paper and a box about a foot tall. Confusion settled over him as he looked up at his father, who gruffly cleared his throat and said, "Well, go on, open it, ya rascal."_

_He tore the paper off with gusto; his parents never allowed him to open presents early on Christmas, what was so special about –_

_And his jaw hung slack._

_

* * *

_Reach for the sky…

_The string pulled itself effortlessly back into the pucker in his back. It was a wonderful feeling, finally being played with by a child. A real _child_. The toy knew, as an instinct buried deep down, somewhere past his stuffing, that he could show no emotion – no movement whatsoever, not even a breath – to the youngster who tossed him in the air in an attempt to re-enact 'Woody's Finest Hour'. Still, however, as he landed on a pile of pillows covered with brown sacks that may have perhaps simulated boulders, Woody could have smiled at the enthusiasm displayed to him on a daily basis. It wasn't every day, Dipstick said to him, that a toy would come across a child so rare as Charles Davis. He took care of them all. He loved them all._

_Woody trusted Dipstick, oldest and wisest toy that he knew. This was a happy home._

_Still young, his hand-stitched limbs were stiff from disuse. The box that the manufacturers stuffed his brothers in certainly weren't comfortable, but what did they care? They were getting paid to make the toys, not to cater to them. That was what he was – not a Sheriff, even though his badge said so. He was a toy. Not a man. Not-man didn't mind, though. He still enjoyed sleeping next to Charlie, listening to Dipstick snore from the other side of the bed. When their owner re-opened his eyes, it would be time for yet another wild ride through his imagination. Charlie would never know what happened after Woody jumped into the Grand Canyon, faithful steed Bullseye acting as his wings, but he didn't care anymore. He could make up a thousand and one ways the show could end with his best friend by his side. It warmed the small pullstring toy's stuffing to be held in such high regards._

_He loved to be loved._

"_You're my favorite deputy!"_

_**1969**_

_They hadn't seen the sun in about five years._

_Granted, being Charlie's toys, they probably should have been grateful that they hadn't been put out for the trash. What could Woody say? He tilted the tip of his brown felt hat down, so that it cast a shadow all along his face. There was no denying it – Charlie had grown up. He called himself Char now, too old to believe in yodeling cowgirls and names like "The Old, Abandoned Mine". The most he got out of talking critters anymore was Lassie, and not even Dipstick understood _that_._

"_I knew this would happen." Snapped a voice, and they all knew who it was. Potato Head, newly appointed leader of the toys, was still trying his best to scrabble out of the box they were contained in. It had been months since he'd last walked around on stable ground, and he was starting to lose it – would he ever be able to move around without stumbling and breaking himself every five seconds? Young, brown eyes observed him, holding a small doll – Clara, Charlie's older sister's Barbie – to his chest. She sobbed dry tears into the folds of his cow-printed vest, like she'd been doing ever since the teenager had put her in the box. At least they were all together, now._

"_We'll get outta here. Go somewhere else. Somewhere with a kid. Somewhere we can be played with."_

"_But what if Charlie wants us again?"_

_His voice was still soft, lacking the gravel-like quality that he would use some thirty years later, facing a spaceman in a ludicrously painted white and green suit. There was no bite to him. Not yet, for he was still Charles' favorite toy. "We can't just leave. He might open this box and find us gone, and then…"_

"_Then what? _What?_ Huh? We get tossed around by a lunatic for a couple of years and put back? Sorry, Pal, but I'm the leader here, and I say we skedaddle and make our lives our own. We don't have to deal with sissy boys like Charlie out in the city. I hear there's some great bars there, too."_

"_Tate," intoned the wooden doll, finally getting up with a dusty little sigh. "We can't. Just. Leave. There's no way Charlie would forgive - "_

"_I ain't lookin' for his forgiveness, Woody! Damnit!" Tate had arrived cynical and grouchy, but he'd always liked Woody. Well, he had up until they'd been put in the box together. Friendships wore thin, then. Mr. Potato Head picked up his pieces and re-assembled himself for the seventeenth time that evening. "I'm lookin' to get us outta here before your voice box stops. Before Dipstick loses all his fur. Before Clara's hair starts fallin' out. You can stay if you want, but I'm takin' my family away from here, hear me? Now give me a boost."_

_Woody could do nothing but obey, but they didn't get anywhere. As some force of gravity lifted the toys up, up and up, they twisted and tumbled over each other, hoping that wherever they were going, it wasn't the trash._

_**1989**_

"_Where is It, where is it… Ahh, here you are…"_

_The Sheriff didn't remember much, but he remembered that voice._

"…_Woody."_

_Boy, had he changed. And yet Woody, who knew every facet of Charles Davis' face and then some, could see no difference between the Charlie of old and the thirty-nine-year-old man who now cradled him in his arms, all nostalgia and amusement. He didn't speak in a Texan accent anymore, but he still had that funny twang in his voice from years and years of practice._

_Potato Head was gone; he didn't know where, but it wasn't something he concerned himself with anymore. When he left, he'd taken Clara and Dipstick anywhere-but-here, but the ever loyal cowboy knew where his heart lay. Curled up in a cardboard box for more than twenty years, alone and starving for a child's love – that was all he remembered of his life anymore, except for _this_ man. Through all the heartbreak, all the emotional turmoil, all that he'd done to better himself and to prepare for the time where he would face the sun once more, he'd dreamed of this moment. _

"_Oh my God. You kept it all this time?" A woman's voice. That was new. He didn't like her, because Woody hated being called 'it.'_

"_Well, sure. Didn't you keep any of your old toys? Could'a sworn there were more in that box…"_

"_I almost did." Remorse colored the feminine accent now, and the cowboy doll could do nothing but hold himself still, try to rein in the desire to swivel his eyes to see just who his aged owner was talking to. "I had the Jessie doll. You know the one. But I gave her away, put her in a Charity box. I should've kept her… But there's that lamp that Mom gave us for the wedding, does that count?"_

_Woody could have smiled. He knew that lamp. It was very pretty and had the nicest voice. Had he been of a better state of mind, they might've been enjoying each other's company right about now._

"_Hey," and now he was being shifted around and Woody could see shoulder-length blonde hair and he was being pressed against an obviously pregnant stomach, "maybe we'll find another one. Come on, let's go downstairs. I'll cook tonight."_

_Sheriff Woody was walked downstairs, chancing one small glance out the window as he, his old owner, and his owner's wife climbed steadily down the attic stairs. In a flash of relieved exultation, the cowboy saw the moon and contained his triumphant laughter. That hell was finally over._

_

* * *

_"_Wah! WAAAH!"_

_Woody was there for the birth._

"_Hey there, little guy…" There was a nervous tone in Char's voice that he'd not heard before, something like a mix of awe, wonder and fear. Was that how fathers sounded? He tried not to blink at the bawling, bleeding mess that was slowly obscuring his vision and hoped that, for his vest's sake, it was going to be cleaned up before Charlie held it. "I'm your dad. Daddy. Da-ddy."_

"_Char, he can't talk yet…" Emily, tired but still amused, shook her head back and forth against the pillow and cuddled her son to her chest. After five grueling hours of labor, he was still a little angel to her eyes. "Andrew Franklin… Does that sound good to you?"_

"_Honestly, no." Char grinned at her from his position on the hard plastic chair, and Woody stifled a laugh. "But whatever you want, honey. You know, we could name him 'Woody'…"_

_A flash of irritation briefly shadowed Woody's eyes. This… Child was not going to be his replacement._

"_No." She shot him a look and wiped some baby hairs away from the tiny boy's face. Charles chuckled and bent over his son, waggling the lifeless doll at him. Andrew reached for the toy, instantly in love with the soft feel of him, and the kind brown eyes that seemed like they were watching every move he made. "Hey there, Andy… This is Woody. He's going to keep you company while I go to work, okay?"_

_Andy cooed sleepily and nestled into his mother's breast, tired from his excursion. Emily kissed her husband and watched him leave, observing the Woody doll and bestowing a fond smile upon him. What more could she ask for?_

_By then, the old toy was entranced. He took in the boy's soft brown hair and his tiny stub of a nose – Charlie's, his mind supplied through the subdued shock – and watched as the boy reached up and tugged at the fabric he had been swathed in. Sheriff Woody wasn't sure that he was all that fond of babies – Children, sure, but babies? That was a whole different rodeo – but he would look after Andy. He'd do it for Charlie._

_So it was that when the young boy grew, child and toy loved with everything they had. Andy's father wasn't around much, and the only male around the house was an inanimate cowboy doll who said strange things when his string was pulled. To his imagination, though, this was more than sufficient. He could tell Woody anything and not feel stupid (Because he would feel stupid - he was supposed to, if being beat up over crying about being hit was any indication)._

_And sometimes, when things were too horrible that not even he, as practiced a toy as he was, couldn't stay mute, the old Sheriff would climb up to Andy's shoulder and sing softly in his ear, adopting an age-old accent that he barely used anymore to sing about friends and forever and being there for each other. He remembered Charlie when he sang, and now he would remember Andy, too.  
_

_**1996**_

_He could never fill Dipstick's shoes, but then again, did he want to?_

_He'd been a passive old Dalmatian, but that needed to change. In a world where competition ran high and newer, fancier toys were being manufactured every day, there was no room for them to be complacent in their lives. They needed a leader, and neither the loyal slinky dog nor the plastic dinosaur that Charlie had picked up from the local Al's Toy Barn was up to the job. It was, then, upon his shoulders that they should be guided. He was the most level-headed one. For, even though Tate had returned (With a new piggy bank and some straggling toys, which the new boy's parents accepted after finding them in a pile of second birthday presents), he came back a defeated man with nothing but pride and old grudges to his name. _

_He looked a little looser around the edges. Woody made sure to accommodate him as best was possible, even if the old grouch picked on him more than he ever had before._

_Their relationship was strained, not broken. He would tell himself this time and again, one staff meeting after another where the Potato Head would make hurtful jokes and wisecracks he should've learned to deal with thirty years ago. He missed the days when they didn't bicker, "Where's-Dipstick-Where's-Carla-What-Did-You-Do-You-Should-Have-Stayed", or "I-Don't-Know-I-Was-Looking-Out-For-Myself-Leave-Me-Be-You-Moron". But those days were far, far gone, and the pullstring toy had given up hope that they would ever return. Tate was in Hamm's hands, now. The piggybank had an odd sense of humor, but he was loved amongst the toys._

_Andy wasn't old enough to move out of the country quite yet, but Char's income was stable enough to allow them a bigger, better house nearer to Canada, where he had been transferred five years ago. The aged toy, the loyal wife, and the estranged son rarely saw him. He was a memory now, but a happy one. Someday, hoped the wooden doll, he would return. He could no more father Andy than his youngest sister, Molly, could. (Molly, an almost-happy-accident, had been a blessing in disguise. She'd brought that pretty pink lamp down from the musty old attic. Woody saw her peeking at him out of the corner of her eye every now and again.)_

_Now, a week before the move, he was busy organizing all the toys into an attempt at order from chaos. He didn't want anyone to have to spend an eternity trapped in a dank house with no one except that horrible child next door for company. It would be enough to drive even the sweetest of them all insane. His was a long, languorous battle, but he was winning – sort of like the games of Checkers he played with Slinky._

_He was like a newer version of his old, canine friend. Loyal, trusting, sharp… He knew what he was getting into, and it had been a solid friendship from the start. Woody could no more imagine life without him than he could with the boy who was currently positioning boxes around his brightly-colored room, preparing for another one of his adventures with Sheriff Woody and One-Eyed Bart. New and old, old and new – it seemed like it was quickly becoming a reoccurring theme in the toy's life, but he had learned to accept it a long time ago._

_Potato Head was picked up and given a small, bright green squirting gun that he held suspiciously fast to. Molly watched intently as Andy prepped the toys for their newest adventure, lined up perfectly in the order that they would be needed. Woody, as he always had been and always would be, was clutched in his right hand. He would be the One-Eyed Bart's downfall this time, that time, and every time after that._

_Andrew Davis was no Charlie, even Woody could admit to that. But the imagination, the pure happiness that they brought to him was all the same. The games were all the same. The love was all the same, and so the not-man-but-toy named Woody was content to live his life, one way or another, as long as he and his new family were loved._

"All right everyone, _this_ is a _stickup!_ Don't _anybody_ move!"

* * *

**FOOTNOTES:** What did you guys think? :3 I hope you enjoyed it; this will lead into a complete, total retelling of the Toy Story trilogy and then, after I've set up the re-canoned canon (xD), I'll start in on a series of my own. I hope you'll join me on that long journey, and I hope to see you there. Reviews and critiques, I would remind you, are always welcomed.


	2. Recon Plan: Charlie

**WE THAT ARE A'CHANGIN'  
**_Perspectives__  
_By: Seiferre Quintesce / 2o1o

**RATING:** T  
**PAIRING(S):** Quaint-shipping (Woody/Bo), eventual BFF-shipping  
**GENRE(S):** Romance/Action/Adventure  
**WARNING(S):** Some material not suited for children.  
**COMMENTS?:** Yes, please. R&R to your heart's desire. I'll love you for it.  
**CONTESTS: **None right now.  
**DEDICATIONS: **To all you wonderful reviewers, of course.**  
DISCLAIMER:** 'Toy Story' is © Pixar and Disney. I do not own it, or the characters, and only claim any non-canon characters as my own. This piece of fiction was created for entertainment purposes only, bearing no intent for profit or gain.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** Look who's back! I've had an… Interesting last couple of months, filled with drama and happiness and the occasional cookie. I'm hoping I'm here to stay this time (xD), so more recent updates should be seen. I thank you all for your patience! As always, if you'd like a personal reply to your review (i.e., an answer to a question or something), you can feel free to send me a message.

**TODAY'S FOOTNOTES INCLUDE**: Just a little note.

* * *

_**The Davis Household  
October 12, 1996**_

_The sun beat down on Andyville like a war drum, pounding its insufferable rays upon the poor townsfolk as their god, their shepherd, and their leader directed them into another tangled web for his amusement. _

_Today, it was the bank._

_Such was the life in a toy's town. Rocky Gibraltar, Troll, various tiny townspeople, Bo Peep, and even Robot were crowded into a corner of cardboard and crayon, their plasticine arms raised high above their heads in a gesture of surrender to the city's long-time nemesis, One-Eyed Bart._

_He had been a respectable citizen, once upon a time. The town's former produce tycoon, Bart made a fortune every day with his fresh fruits and vegetables. There was no one better, and in no time the entire city reaped the benefits of his hard labor. Bart was a good man, but his patience only extended so far._

_When children began to play in his fields… He'd tolerated that, just barely. The town needed that food. What was one day compared to the other three hundred and sixty four? But when they didn't stop – he'd even asked _politely_, something the old recluse wasn't accustomed to – something within the kindly old geezer had snapped._

_These days, they said the children pushed up the vegetables instead of daisies._

"Now, empty that safe!"

_Money rained from the sky, it seemed, as Rocky hurled several large burlap sacks toward One-Eyed Bart's feet. He knew he could get past the outlaw on his own, but with everyone else… The large bodybuilder shook his head and continued to pile the bags higher and higher, as if he was constructing a barricade of greens and golds between his friends and the outside world. The bank teller - a large, portly man - seemed resigned to the situation, for he was only fueling it by handing away all the silver and copper he could manage._

"Ooh-hoo-hoo,"_ trilled the potato-shaped man, scooping up handfuls of cash and bringing it to his nose. It didn't surprise anyone that he looked strikingly similar to a crack addict. _"Money-money-money!"

"Stop it! Stop it, you mean ol' potato!" _cried their resident southern belle. Bo tossed a delicate hand above her bonnet, perfectly dramatic, and quivered as the cold touch of a cocked pistol was crudely pressed against her bosom._

"Quiet, Bo Peep, or your sheep get run over!"

"No!"_ she gasped, almost dropping to her knees. The sheep were her entire purpose in life, and she'd been saving the wool to make some clothes for the orphans on the other side of town. _"Not my sheep! Somebody do something!"

_Clink, clink, clink._

_There he was. Her manna in the desert._

_Bo drank in the sight of him - tall, dignified, stern and rugged. He was Sheriff Woody Pride, and he would set things right in Andyville._

_Holding people against their will, Tate?_ Woody wanted to snipe. _How very like you._ But all that came out was, "Reach for the sky…"

"Sheriff Woody." Growled Andy, in a fair imitation of Potato Head's grumble. The boy turned the vegetable-themed figurine to face his favorite hero of the hour, pointing the squirt gun directly at his shiny gold badge.

"I'm here to stop you, One-Eyed Bart!" declared "Woody" in an act of complete heroism. He gave no thought to Bart and his incoherent snarling. "Are you gonna come quietly?"

"Can't touch me, Sheriff! I brought my attack dog - with a built-in forcefield!"

"Well," Woody retorted, more than prepared for such a scenario. "I brought my _dinosaur_, who _eats_ forcefield dogs!"

An overlarge piece of green plastic loomed over Slinky Dog, easily intimidating those in his path and forestalling any other resistance. The Sheriff chuckled under his breath as, abandoned upon the hardwood floor, he watched Slink's front end be tugged towards the other end of the room with his proverbial tail between his legs. Poor Slink; he was almost never used for any of the "good" roles. Perhaps that was why he was so loyal to him; pity and remorse for the way he acted during playtime. But they were all a family here – behind the scenes, lines were never drawn or crossed.

Andy continued to mimic his childhood hero, not quite grasping the ups-and-downs of a man's proper, Texan speech. Woody looked on with satisfaction just the same, proud to be held in such a regard by the boy he had sworn to look over as he threw his "arch nemesis" into Molly's crib. Tate glared at him, hanging upside down as his plastic frame was banged against the hard wooden bassinet. _Damn you, _he seemed to be saying, and the doll knew not to flinch away from it. It was best not to show Mr. Potatohead any weakness.

As the smallest Davis child brutalized Tate (To Hamm's amusement; he could see the smirk from miles away), the cowboy doll allowed himself to be lifted into his charge's arms.

"You're my favorite deputy!" he belted out against a cloud-bedecked paper sky. And he really was.

Andrew Davis was special, and he'd grown on the stalwart Sheriff since his birth. There was nothing the six year old loved more than to play with his favorite cowboy doll – the only thing in the house that he had to remind him of his father. Pictures never did him justice, he said, and privately the figurine in his hands agreed. Charlie's enthusiasm and ultimate love for all he held dear could never be captured by any lone photograph. One had to witness it in person.

And in a way, Andy _was._ Woody marveled time and again at the similarities between father and child, observed only by his aged eyes. Both so childlike, so imaginative, and just the slightest bit naïve, each had a place in the antique toy's heart, and it tugged at his pullstring to see that Char had absolutely no time for his toys, no time for his _son_, now.

So Woody allowed himself to be towed around the boy's house, content to watch the scenery fly by as he was swung around and launched into the air (repeatedly – that railing had hurt, but he was used to it by now). Playtime with Andy had become a surreal, out-of-body experience, fueled by his imagination and what seemed like a hunger, a _drive_ to create new things. He, however, simply appreciated the time it allotted him to think away from the prattle of his friends.

He was leader, after all, and needed his stoicism-with-a-dash-of-angst.

What was left of their sitting room before the move was covered in colorful garlands today. This confused the toy, as he knew that his charge's birthday wasn't to be held until the nineteenth. With a frown, he tilted his head just the slightest bit to the right, listening in on Andy's excited rambling.

"Wow, you got half the store I asked you for! Wow, look at that—oh my gosh you got-"

_Cute kid,_ he thought wryly. Sometimes, he had to wonder how Mrs. Davis handled him.

Unfortunately, said matriarch didn't offer any valuable information, and the Sheriff was left to contemplate the impromptu change on his own. What would Andy's toys say? They'd always been a bit delusional, a little bit neurotic, a little psychotic… It was difficult, keeping so many different personalities in line and trying to keep it all under a human family's nose. Sometimes, he wished they'd all just shut up and cooperate, but that would make them a little too dull. Woody was never sure which he'd prefer, but then again, he never had the time to contemplate such things. Pale pink lips pursed themselves into a slight frown as he was hauled right back up the stairs and tossed lightly on the bed.

"_Some_body's poisoned the _water_hole!"

"C'mon Molly. Ooh, you're getting heavy. C'ya later, Woody!"

* * *

Three._ A toy has three seconds to drop before a child notices they're moving._

Two._ Take a two-second look to make sure it's okay to move._

One._ One human is enough to destroy our secret._

_Three. Two. One._

_Three-two-one._

Woody blinked.

"Pull my string," he mumbled, putting a hand to his forehead in dismay. "The birthday party's_ today?_"

He had to think fast – the toys wouldn't stay still forever now that they'd seen Andy leave, and they would be expecting (Not looking forward to) a staff meeting as soon as they began to crowd the bedroom floor. There was no way that anyone was going to accept this without at least a month's notice, and even then they would still probably panic. What was a cowboy to do?

He'd need to wing it, he decided, slinging himself off the bed. And they'd just have to deal. It was just one party out of a million that Andy's playthings already dealt with, and they hadn't lost too many toys in the process. Most of Andy's baby toys had been annoying anyway. "Okay everybody, coast is clear!"

One small hand lifted to shift his beloved hat to a carelessly jaunty angle as he surveyed the veritable metropolis below. RC, their resident transport, careened around the blue rug as if he was racing around the track, the two friends Snake and Robot coming to a halt as he whizzed by. Andy's toy firemen rearranged themselves and followed their friend, making sure no pretend fires were being set around the room. Mr. Spell and Etch, in the meantime, were having a rather interesting game of Chess in the corner, which happened to occupy some of Andy's more simple toys as if they were watching an actual tournament. He enjoyed this view - his family, working together to make their tiny piece of the world a happy, lively place.

"'Ages Three and Up'– it's on my box. Ages_ three. And. Up._ I'm not supposed to be babysitting Princess Drool. I swear, I -"

…Of course, there was always one in every family.

"Give it a rest, Potato Head. She's only a kid."

"No. _No. Andy_ is a kid. _Seymore_ was a kid. _Molly_ is a toddler. Oh, whatever. She can choke on my mustache for all I care."

He _really_ needed to learn how to tune the spud out. Woody walked away just as Tate rearranged his body parts in a strangely accurate depiction of Pablo Picasso's work.

Instead, he sought out Sarge. His real name, he'd learned when Andy was three, was Phillip. But the army man, eternally patriotic and a spastically loyal follower, felt that he was somehow betraying the toys of Andy's room simply because they happened to live next door to a juvenile psychopath. Out of respect for Sarge-not-Phillip's wishes, the Sheriff demanded that everyone call him 'Sergeant'.

Sarge was a good man – one of those fellows that everybody knew not to cross. He considered his time in the room an almost sacred duty, making it his business to keep up-to-date on what was going on with both the child and the toys. His friendship with the gentle giant he knew as Woody had cemented a formidable team, for Sarge made up his small stature with more than enough battle experience, and the cowboy was perhaps the most brilliant tactician he'd ever known.

"Hey Sarge, have ya seen Slinky?"

"Sir, no sir!" Sarge saluted, his little back straight as a needle as he raised his eyes to the sky. He'd been busy setting up spies for the impending recon mission next week. For, although assured that they wouldn't be needed, it was an unspoken rule that they at least have _someone_ go down to watch Andy open his presents, just in case. But Sarge would never send any of his men down alone. It was a dangerous world for toys as small as they.

"Okay, hey, thank you. At ease." He chuckled, offering a not-quite-salute of his own. "Hey, uh, Slinky?"

"Right here, Woody." He was pushing a Checkers board out from under the bed, set and ready to go. "And I'm red this time - "

"Uh, no. S-Slink - "

"Oh, well, all right, you'n be red if ya want…" He began to move to the other side of the board, but the Sheriff blocked his way.

"Uh, n-n-not now, Slink. I got some bad news." Woody leaned forward to murmur, cupping his face in one of his hands. He had hoped to muffle the sound, but the dog's exclamation blew his attempt out of the water.

"Bad news?"

_Oh, for Pecos' sake._

"…Just gather everyone up for a staff meeting and be happy." He grumbled, shooting a sheepish look at the toys staring from the middle of the room.

"Got it."

"Be happy!" he ordered, rolling his eyes heavenward as Slink began to laugh hysterically. His friend always had been a bit dramatic.

One 'thud' followed another as the old toy wandered around, calling his comrades toward the podium that Snake and Robot were putting together for him (Having a draw with Etch along the way, and subsequently dying for the twenty-third time that week). Alternately, he searched for his doodlepad – there would be no meeting without it; the toys were a tad too scatterbrained to keep themselves in line for very long.

He did find it eventually, lying all by its lonesome between Andy's trash bin and the Hot Wheels track.

"Hey, who moved my doodlepad way over here?" A vein might have pulsed at his temple, had he had any, as he bent to pick up the forgotten pad. _Were they that desperate not to have a staff meeting today,_ wondered the cowboy, _or maybe this is just some –_

"RAAAWR!"

"Mm, how ya doin', Rex." Woody glanced up at him momentarily, then continued to peruse his notes.

"Were ya scared?" the giant lizard trailed behind him, all hopes and dreams and naiveté, and wrung his tiny claws slick with anxiety. He'd tried for years to become the fearsome creature that Andy so wanted him to be, but he simply couldn't get the hang of it. He wanted friends, not food, and biting the other toys' heads off wasn't going to get him anywhere in that department. What would Potato Head say if he ended up taking a bite out of Hamm just because he felt like it? No, that wouldn't fly with Rex. If he could just get out one good, strong roar… "Tell me honestly."

"I was close to being scared that time." The leader encouraged, prodding his friend in the chest playfully as they walked. Rex didn't buy it, of course, too wrapped up in his own self-depreciation.

"Well, I'm going for fearsome here, but I just don't _feel_ it. I think I'm just coming off as annoying."

"Why don't you try scaring the Troikas inst – PHEH – OW! Oh! Hi, Bo. Hi."

"I wanted to thank you, Woody," she murmured, hypnotizing the Western toy with her pretty pink blush and ceramic shine, "for saving my flock."

"Oh, hey," he chuckled, attempting to win his voice back. "It was nothin'."

He had, after all, been saving Bo Peep since Molly was born. Theirs was a relatively new, budding relationship, one that the Sheriff thoroughly enjoyed. Bo was such a sweetheart – kind, loving, and subtly pleasurable for all the right reasons. She had a certain aura about her that simply drew him in in a way no female toy had managed to do, and Woody often found himself wishing he hadn't spent so much time moping inside a box. He offered her a somewhat timid smile and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling flushed and awkward.

"Whadda'ya say I get someone else to watch the sheep tonight?" Bo leaned forward, gripping her shepherd's staff in such a way that it captivated his attention enough to get his string tied up.

"Hehehehe - Oh yeah. I uhm… Pfft." Woody spat intelligently, seeming to shrink into himself at the implications. The woman chuckled at him, patted his cheek and began to wander toward her flock.

"Remember: I'm just a couple of blocks away…"

Hers was the most amazing walk he'd ever had the pleasure to witness, with a swing to her hip and not a beat to be missed. Bo always seemed as though she was walking on air, a princess made from porcelain. Woody watched her with his mouth agape and his pullstring so tightly wound that the next pre-recorded phrase seemed as though it was fighting its way up his throat, unbidden. There was something about Little Bo Peep that made him go weak at the knees, kindling a feeling low in his pad of stuffing which he was never sure he liked. Was that what love felt like?

He wasn't sure whether to hope so, or not.

"Hey, Woody, come on!" Slinky called, sounding just the slightest bit impatient. Still dumbstruck, Woody didn't seem to notice that everyone had gathered until someone nearly knocked him over.

His small brown boots _clink-clink_ed their way over to the podium, arms flailing about as was his way. The mob assembled before him looked equally skeptical, bored, and apprehensive – staff meetings meant more stress for beings whose lives were not meant to be hectic, but the recent boom in video game sales put their very existence on the line. Woody cleared his throat and performed a quick check, making sure that everyone could hear him before he began.

"O-kay. First item today…" A brief glance at his nearly intelligible scribbles. "Oh yeah. Has everyone picked a moving buddy?"

"Moving buddy? You can't be serious!"

"I didn't know we were supposed to have one already …"

"Do we have'ta hold hands?" Tate held one of his detachable arms up to the snickering crowd. A nonexistent vein pulsed in Woody's temple.

And pulsed.

And _pulsed._

"Oh, yeah, you guys think this is a _big_ _joke_. We've only got one week left before the move. I don't want any toys left behind! A moving buddy – if you don't have one_, get one._"

The audacity of them. He'd been anticipating a swift, safe move. One that made everyone comfortable and in which, hopefully, they wouldn't lose any of their friends. Apparently, however, his efforts were in vain. Woody worked his jaw in an attempt to stave off a lingering sense of resentment for the fact that they, Tate in particular, could not foresee the same severity that he could. Instead, he turned to the doodlepad for solace.

"All right. Next… Oh yeah. Tuesday night's "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" meeting was, I think, a big success, and we wanna thank Mr. Spell for putting that on for us." He gestured at the robotic toy with a slight smile in appreciation, and was sure that if Spell had the ablity, he would be blushing. "Thank you Mr. Spell.'

"Y-O-U-R-E… W-E-L-C-O-M-E."

"Okay. Oh, yes… One… _Minor_ note here:" He hoped to stress the word 'minor' to ward off any extra panic, but knew that he could never hope to control such a thing. "Andy's-birthday-party-has-been-moved… To today."

_Pandemonium._

"Uhh, next we have - !"

"What do you mean the party's _today?_ His birthday's not 'til next week!"

"W-H-A-T-?-!-?-!"

"What's goin' on down there, is his mom losin' her marbles?"

"Well, obviously, she wanted to have the party before the move. It's no big surprise – Andy has no friends where we're going to be moving, and I'm sure none of us want to see him miserable and friendless on his birthday." Woody shook his head in exasperation. "_I'm_ not worried. _You_ shouldn't be worried - "

"Of course Woody ain't worried. He's been Andy's favorite since kindergarten."

Slink jumped to Woody's defense before the cowboy could open his mouth, so Woody chose instead to glare at the old grouch, marred by a slight twitch in his left eye. _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him…._ "Come on guys, every Christmas and birthday we go through this!"

"But what if Andy gets another dinosaur? A mean one?" Woody slapped a palm to his forehead. "I just don't think I could take that kind of rejection!"

"Hey, listen: no one's getting replaced!" He stepped down from the podium, tugging the microphone's cord along as he went. "This is Andy we're talking about. He loves us; he argues with Mom just because she tries to put us in the washing machine. He spends hours looking for any lost parts before he goes to bed. He sings us to sleep when there's a thunderstorm out. Now, does that sound like the kind of kid who'd abandon us just because he got some new, hotshot action figure?"

A pause; he waited for the inevitable headshake that he was sure to see, and then continued. "It doesn't matter how much we're played with. What matters is that we're there for Andy when _he_ needs us. That's what we're made for, right - ?"

"Pardon me, I hate to break up the staff meeting - " Hamm drawled, clearly not displeased with the turn of events at all. "- but they're _here!_ Birthday guests at three o' clock!"

Could the guests really be here that early? Nearly knocked to the ground, the best he could do was listen for the patter of sneakers against gravel and hope that the toys wouldn't worry quite as much as they had in previous years. None of them, after all, had had to endure thirty-some years trapped in a box with only packing peanuts for company. "Uh…" he mumbled to Lenny, the only one sane enough to not try to clog the window space with not-so-inanimate objects. "Meeting adjourned?"

Every toy knew, instinctively, that the days spent with their owners were numbered. Pre-school toys were thrown out on an almost monthly basis, squishy plush toys soon replaced by G.I. Joes and army men, and even Mr. Potato Head, whom Andy still seemed to adore despite the fact that he smelled slightly of butter and compost, needed to be mindful of yard sales and garbage bags. Birthday parties were simply added-on pressure for those who feared for their eventual loss, and the heartbreak it would bring them.

The Sheriff understood that pain all too well. How long had they stayed in that box before Tate left? Years. Woody would even venture to say decades, if he felt so bold. It was nothing that he ever wanted those that he considered his family to experience, though in the back of his mind he knew it was inevitable.

As a competent leader, it was these thoughts that pushed him to call the Sergeant and his men to arms. Going through a little bit of extra trouble for the sake of his family's collective well-being seemed fair to him.

He would insist, later, that he was _not_ soft-hearted. Just diplomatic.

* * *

"All right men, you heard him! Code red – REPEAT: We are in Code Red! Recon Plan: Charlie. Execute! Let's move, move, move, move, move!"

Sarge guided his miniature battalion through the crack in Andy's bedroom door, beheld by his fellow citizens with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Sarge liked to think that they were respected – Woody liked to joke that even if they weren't, they could easily take on any of the other toys. But they needed each other. Before his Bucket O' Soldiers had taken residence in the Davis household, there wasn't exactly any organized system. That was what he was here for. He was the Sheriff's long arm of the law.

He and thirty of his other men, a specially selected balance of veterans and bottom-of-the-barrel rookies whom they'd pulled up specifically to train, marched their way over to the banister and arranged themselves deep in the shadows of Mrs. Davis' bedroom door. 'Recon Plan: Charlie' was simple: scale the staircase, climb into the faux shrub that Andy's mother loved to preen, and report to the Sheriff on the goings-on of any holiday, anniversary, or get-together. It was not to be confused with 'Recon Plan: Emily' (A more lax variation in which they would set the baby monitor downstairs during the night using a combination of Andy's jump rope, toy boomerang, and plastic monkeys) under any circumstances.

Benedict, his second-in-command, directed the soldiers down a good ten feet, Sarge keeping a watchful eye as half of the fleet slid down to the ground while the others began to tie the baby monitor up. Theirs was a party that moved swiftly, silently, and successfully, and he didn't want to disappoint Woody by goofing up and having to forfeit the mission because Mom picked them up and put them back in Andy's room.

"Let me go, too, sir!"

"No." He was adamant. He would not let any first-timers out past the stairs.

"I can do this," the eager young soldier implored of him, clasping his hands around his weapon like a prayer. "I can. I promise I won't let ya down, sir. Anyway, it's just a simple recon and I - "

"I said _no_. Now stand down, rookie, or I'll have you sent back for latrine duty."

"But I…" He bit his lip, shifting and staring down at the hardwood floor. "I… Yes, sir."

* * *

"And this," Woody explained to his cohorts, "is how we find out what is in those presents."

His lanky legs swung back and forth underneath the nightstand as he watched them all gather into a semi-circle on the floor. They had settled some, thankfully, and the frustration at his lack of apparent crowd control lessened its force.

"Ten cents says we're getting replaced by G. I. Joe."

"Nah, s'gotta be a new video game system. Andy's been talking about the Play Somethin' for months."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and listened for Sarge's voice through the static, praying that he wouldn't take too long.

* * *

"Go, go, go!"

Sarge's company pushed forward, but he remained behind to support the young soldier who'd had the misfortune to freeze right in the middle of Mom's path. Unlike Andy and Charlie, she didn't seem to care too much for toys.

_Crunch._

Ulysses was a rookie in every sense of the word. Too much bravado and not enough experience to back it up. Sarge liked to say that he flew too close to the sun on wax wings.

"G-G-Go on without me," the youngster cried dramatically, forcing the old general to roll his eyes skyward. "Just go!"

"A good soldier never leaves a man behind." His injuries weren't that serious, but Sarge played along anyway. Humoring the rookies was something, he'd found, of a comfort when his men were injured and in need of medical aid. It took their minds off of the pain, and if that meant that he'd have to take a blow to his dignity and re-enact a bad rendition of a World War II film, then so be it. "I told you to stay behind, soldier. I expect all orders given to be followed henceforth."

"Y-yes Sir." Came the weak response. Then, defeated, "…Sorry, Sir."

"It's all right, son. We're made out of plastic! Nothin' to be afraid of but fire. And maybe gelatin." The medic rapped his young cohort on the back and caused him to grunt in amusement. Sarge, too busy to give any sort of fatherly lecture on following orders and being careful, lifted his binoculars to the humongous pile of presents set upon the table.

"What d'you think's in 'em, Sarge?"

"I dunno, Ben." He shrugged, keeping a sharp eye on Andy as Mom arranged the boys into a circle. "We just pray to Geppetto that it's nothin' bad. Let the Sheriff know the first present's a lunchbox."

* * *

"Who invited that kid?"

"It wasn't a kid." Woody rolled his eyes. Only Veronica Davis would have the gall enough to give her grandson _bedsheets_ for his birthday.

All the same, the toys counted their blessings. Andy received Play Doh sets, an igloo tent (Complete with a family of penguins – Wheezy and his younger sister Breezy), a deck of Buzz Lightyear playing cards – Which, the Sheriff was relieved to hear, did not come packaged in an actual Buzz Lightyear figure's case – and ten new Hot Wheels cars. RC excitedly revved his engine. _I'm going to teach my little brothers to drive!_

Yet, the room still waited with bated breath for the conclusion. The suspense killed any kind or welcoming mood that they might have had toward their strange new friends, despite Woody's effort to remain upbeat and positive. Even Bo Peep, normally so complacent and blissfully serene, had her dainty pink nose pinched with worry.

"Okay, we're on the last present now…"

"Last present!" he heard himself announce, and somehow even he was trembling with trepidation same as the rest of them. Hadn't this whole effort been put in place to calm them all down? Damnit. The old cowboy pressed his ear to the baby monitor and waited.

Lenny shifted from foot to foot.

Rex's tail twitched.

Potato Head mumbled to himself.

Hamm's coins jingled.

"…It's a big one…"

Bo craned her little neck from her position on top of the nightstand.

Woody tapped his fingers upon the plastic.

"…It's a board game! Repeat: Battleship!"

Finally.

No one heard the sigh of relief that escaped his lips, so caught up were they in jubilation. The toys celebrated amongst each other as Woody's satisfied smirk graced his aged features, and he once again resumed his mild-but-confident attitude. "See? What'd I tell ya? Nothin' to worry ab - "

_Crackle._

Woody jerked back, his mouth dropping in surprise.

"Come in Motherbird! Come in Motherbird! Mom has pulled a surprise present from the closet! Andy's opening it…"

"What? Sarge, I thought you ju - "

"He's really excited about this one. It's a _huge_ package." The army man cut him off. The genuine trepidation he read within the words filled him with a heavy sense of unease. Woody leaned closer to the baby monitor, as if a delinquent caught listening in on a dirty little secret, while the gaggle of toys beneath him backed away.

"Oh – I can't get – one of the kids is in the way! I can't see - "

Despite himself, the cowboy's lower lip quivered. He prayed that the distortion between the monitors would dissipate; they didn't want to miss out on whatever was contained in this present.

"It's a - "

The connection fissured, nearing its breaking point.

"It's a what?" Rex thundered toward the nightstand in his panic, unable to stop himself as he clung to a leg and shook it violently. _"What is it?"_

"Rex stop - !"

The device wobbled unsteadily upon its perch, but lost its battle with gravity as the dinosaur gave one final lurch. The crash boomed about the small room, parts scattering themselves everywhere while the toys worked themselves into a ruckus.

Up above, however, Woody could think of nothing else but how anxious, how… _Scared_ Sarge had seemed, and could only imagine the look on his face as he regarded the mess on the floor.

* * *

**FOOTNOTES:** Yikes. Has anyone noticed how long the introductory period in Toy Story is? No matter – next chapter we get to see BUZZ LIGHTYEAR! Then the real fun begins…

Forgive the absolutely horrible writing... This part of the movie was difficult to sit through for me even in 1995. xD It'll pick up though, I promise.


End file.
